Sarah León

Sarah León lives in Seattle, WA. Her poems have most recently appeared or are forthcoming in Salt Hill Journal, City Arts Magazine, The Shallow Ends, and Forklift, Ohio. She is from Arizona.



Swear on my insides. I’ve been all

hamma jamma since the new year

when the desert made me fly above it

in winter. I want me excessive.

A loose fly near a mirror. A warrior

administratively empowered until,

hot damn, it’s all over. The rug

is plush and blue like the blues

we all suspect. Who’s to say how

it’ll burst. I call dibs on the words

smooth and echo-y. I’m not going

anywhere, after all. It’s you they want,

after all. It’s you that’s always

feinted a cut, well-strapped storm.





The headlights blind us and we fall forward into sea.

I’ve been making plans to stuff backpacks full of the

necessaries and then some extras. I’ve been making plans

to make an evacuation plan and to head, most likely,

south, to the desert. Additionally, I’ve been trying to remember

to grab my keys when I leave the home and to take pills

to prevent eventual birth. This is a poem fresh with

leaving. I’ve told you before that all my people are

gone, but I didn’t tell you what they left and who

has replaced them. My brother asks me about wants, how

to get them met. I tell him about the street woman who

screamed at the Chihuahuas, and all I wanted was a porch

where I could be a neighbor. Ask me again. I’m a real ass.

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